Safe Bets
by Jess Angel
Summary: Post-game AU. Dedicated to thelittletree. Vincent goes to Tifa's side due to an unexpected turn in life.


_For thelittletree_

_a wonderful reader and tremendous writing inspiration_

**Safe Bets  
**by Jess Angel

The room is dark, but in her face, light has never been more obvious. If anyone could define the will to live, personify eternal hope and optimism… she would be it. All are flawed but even in her imperfections and moments of weakness, Tifa's soul of steel would never admit defeat. Bloodied fists or bruised inwardly, Tifa Lockheart would never be found on her knees willingly.

She would not beg for death; nor would she deny it.

A man with long dark hair sat at her bedside, his quiet manner and strong presence filling her with a reassuring peace and sense of security. Physicians had expressed to the 'Family of Heroes' they felt time was drawing near - down to its sad finale; the sickness failed to recede and no improvements seemed forthcoming. The brunette was dying, they said. And cure spells, even from mastered orbs, would only provide temporary relief.

Fatal news before them, the members of AVALANCHE agreed on an hour alone each in her company. At the end would be their last real reunion. Comrades, friends, family would come together once more in the room of a young woman whose passing should have been decades in a distant but real future.

Vincent Valentine was last in line.

He had been Tifa's favorite visitor throughout the last few months. No tearful breakdowns or faltering, half-hearted smiles. Just companionable gaps of silence, some words of observation or wit, and an occasional (not to mention predictable) game of chess. It was exactly what she needed.

And it was more than what was expected.

Tifa watched as he moved the checkered board off her blanket-covered lap and to the nightstand on his left. She smiled. She had lost again. "So, what is that now? Valentine, sixteen. Lockheart, none?"

Vincent placed the last piece back in its rightful place. "I was going to gloat, but thanks to you, it seems I no longer have to." He eyed the black knight before turning to face her amused expression.

She held his stare. "You do know I still have the ability to throw a punch?"

And he held hers. "And you do know I haven't lost the ability to shoot a gun?"

"You wouldn't," she countered, unfazed, then half-smiled, "so wipe off the smirk I _know_ is dying to form." Vincent tried to resist—he couldn't—and Tifa took back her request when she saw the slight curling of his lip. "Or better yet, don't…" He was even more handsome when he wasn't gloomy.

Her next words bordered on the dangerous line of a tense seriousness. "I wouldn't want to leave without seeing at least one happy expression on that face of yours."

The suddenly somber mood came close to stealing his almost-smile.

"…Surely, it's a sign of another apocalypse." Tifa grinned, and the almost-smile lingered awhile.

It never ceased to surprise him, the ease she could slip you into. Of course, he never let it show; but she probably felt it. And something like that should have worried Vincent—annoyed him even. Yet, somehow, it was okay. Sitting in a dark room with her, he was okay.

"You know," crimson eyes moved to hers in attention, "he told me he loved me."

Vincent didn't have to ask who 'he' was. He never did.

The gunman crossed a leg. "Congratulations."

Strange that her words should leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He should have felt some kind of happiness for her—or whatever dulled-down emotion left inside him that was close to it. But he'd forgotten what happiness even smelt like.

When his eyes caught the reluctant smile, he realized something was amiss. Then, it dawned on him. The damn boy had been too late. Vincent cursed at himself for the uncharacteristic lapse and the ill-chosen reply.

"I know I'm dying, Vincent." Tifa straightened, but her voice held no malice. "And he said, 'I love you. We all love you.' " Candlelight flickered over the wooden floorboards. "It wasn't enough."

He was quiet.

"It wasn't the answer I was looking for." She leaned back, holding a pillow to her chest. Her eyes shut, and Tifa listened as Vincent got up to pour a glass of water. The rush of falling liquid and dancing ice cubes tickled her ears. "But… I know he cares." She let out a breath. "I understand."

Tifa always understood. The ice rattled closer. "Sip."

Ruby eyes opened to Vincent. She sat up, and took the glass he held down to her. The chill left his good hand.

"Answers." Vince moved to the window to part the drapes. "They are never what one expects." He stepped back to let her see the view. "Unknown answers are safe bets we pretend we can rely on." Outside the moon and stars were bright as they should be. "And in the end, sometimes we can… and sometimes we cannot."

"Rely on them?" she said lightly, not really asking but absorbing.

He turned his head and nodded. "Sometimes we can rely on them to be what we wish. But if we can't," he trailed off. The ex-Turk remembered chocolate eyes and a white lab coat. "It is better to find them out, then go on not knowing—believing in fallacious realities."

"Could you have loved me?"

Vincent started, thrown for a loop. "I don't see... how that's relevant."

"Does it have to be?" Tifa admired the view, and it was easy to be unaware of inner conflicts and troubled thoughts. "What if I'm just asking a question?"

So many stars, so many… answers?

The gunman thought he could reverse the situation easily. "Are you saying you aren't merely asking a question?"

"Maybe." Tifa continued playfully. "You know, 'unknown answers'. I wouldn't want go on believing in a 'fallacious reality' now, would I?" She arched an eyebrow, clearly entertained.

"You mock me." He stated the obvious, not sure how to respond.

She grinned impishly. "No, I _tease_ you."

"There's a difference?" Vincent sat down on the wingback chair by her bed.

The brunette made a face. "Answer my question."

"Answer mine."

"Hey, I asked first."

"…" The gunman crossed his arms in resolve.

The secondhand tick of a clock further punctuated his stubborn streak.

"Fine." She sighed in resignation. "What's your question?"

"If a tree falls without anyone to hear it, does it still make a sound–"

"Vincent! Seriously...?!" The martial artist pulled at his arms and legs from across the bed, while the former Turk held position and forced his mouth to stay in its usual straight line. "Seriously?" With partial success. "Seriously?" Tifa continued to ask flabbergasted but unable to hold back her laughter at the same time, while dragging him closer.

Her fingers kept hold on the edges of his cloak as she lay herself back on the bed. Tifa let out a light sigh, "You're unbelievable." She quieted, but then let a last laugh tumble out. She never imagined she'd be able to laugh so much with him of all people.

"Ooh," the martial artist breathed, a hand to her heart.

Vincent uncrossed himself. Her face held a slight grimace.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he watched her eyes close and a bead of perspiration slide down the side of her face.

She nodded, eyes still closed and holding on to his red cloak. "I'm fine. Just... tired. That's all it feels like, Vince. Like I'm tired. It doesn't really hurt. But it's like I can feel the life force being drained out of me, and no amount of sleep or rest can fix it."

The gunman murmured under his breath and reached out his hand to the brunette's forehead, casting curaga to take the edge off and provide some comfort. The green glow flared for a moment then dissipated. He carefully removed his cloak from her grasp and allowed her to hold his hand.

"Thank you," Tifa opened her eyes for him.

Unaffected by the absence of a reply, the fighter continued to enjoy the last moments with her dark-haired companion.

* * *

With the young woman in the safety of sleep, Vincent Valentine rose from his seat. Slowly, he returned Tifa Lockheart's hand to her side. She had seemed settled in keeping it within his for the rest of their time. He wasn't a petty man.

The gunman came to the junction behind which their friends awaited. Taking his time, he etched her face into his memory. His hand on the knob, he was struck with the finality. He couldn't leave without answering her question.

"Who couldn't have?"

Even if it begged more questions.

...**Fin.**

* * *

**Author's Note: **I had another scene in mind but it seemed like it might be best to end with that. Oh, how I've missed these two! I know the situation is a bit like, 'Whaaat, why is she dying?' But that's how I came up with the interactions. Somehow, it's not as sad as I felt it might be, but I wasn't aiming for depressing. Maybe others read it differently. As with "Sky Changing Salvation," this was a story I'd written most of five years ago but never had the fuel in me to finish. With the movie "Advent Children" and everything else (which I haven't kept up to date with), this becomes a post-game alternate universe fic. By the way, happy birthday to Cloud Strife! I ran across someone's story and thought it was kind of random, then discovered it is his birthday today.

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear from you – a hello, your thoughts, a request? :D

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © Square-Enix, Inc.


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